


Combustion

by resrie71



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: First Kiss, First Time, Friends to Lovers, M/M, POV Sherlock Holmes
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-12-30
Updated: 2015-12-30
Packaged: 2018-05-10 10:59:45
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,031
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5583301
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/resrie71/pseuds/resrie71
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John Watson has something on his mind. Even Lestrade, hell even <em>Anderson</em> would be able to tell that some sort of crisis is imminent. They would be able to pick up on his relative unease, but I, who know him so well, should be able to deduce the problem.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Combustion

**Author's Note:**

> It has been so long since I have posted anything! I've gone back to work, been sick for the last two months, and been stressed to the max. I swear I have not abandoned A Comedy of (Human) Errors, I'm still hammering out the Mystrade portion of it. Hopefully getting this little one-shot out will get me back in the groove.

Sherlock’s POV

John Watson has something on his mind. Even Lestrade, hell even _Anderson_ would be able to tell that some sort of crisis is imminent. They would be able to pick up on his relative unease, but I, who know him so well, should be able to deduce the problem. 

Fact. John is not sleeping. Even during periods when his nightmares have been particularly brutal, he manages a few hours at a time. During these episodes, I have found that playing my violin softly at the base of the stairs seems to calm him, help him find sleep again. When I have employed this tactic recently however, John continues to toss and turn, sometimes going so far as to give up, turn on his bedside light, and grab one of the James Bond paperbacks off of his night table. He has yet to ask me to stop playing for him, but it does not appear to help.

Fact. John is not eating with his usual gusto. While never one to gorge himself, John has always enjoyed good food. Whether the Chinese down the street, or Angelo’s, or even a simple, but well-prepared, sandwich from Speedy’s, John savors his food. It can be nothing short of mesmerizing to watch him relish a meal. For the last several weeks, at least in my presence, he has only picked at his food. He has become so accomplished at moving the morsels around on his plate that I could take lessons from him. Often he will seem on the verge of speaking. He will glance up at me, take a breath, and then...nothing. His gaze will drop back down to his plate and he will resume shifting the evening’s fare around and seem just a little smaller.

Fact. John is unable to relax at home. While he certainly has his lazy, indolent times, John is always alert. A light sleeper, he has always seemed to be at least somewhat on guard. I pity the burglar who tries to infiltrate Baker Street while John Watson is in residence. Of late, however, he has been extremely distracted. On a number of occasions, I have entered the sitting room to see him brooding in his chair, completely unaware of my presence. Upon asking for a pen, or addressing him in any manner, I hate to use imprecise language, but the phrase ‘he jumps out of his skin’ is appropriate. This may be the most concerning of all of these issues. He may eat or nap while away from home, but I don’t believe this jumpiness continues elsewhere. Physical evidence does not show this level of tension persisting in the hours he is away from home.

Fact. John has not attended any social events since the onset of these symptoms. John is an appallingly social creature. While he has always enjoyed quiet nights at home, even the most minor of outings have been looked forward to with something approaching zeal. There have been no dates, no pub nights with the Yarders, he hasn’t even been down to Mrs. Hudson’s for tea to my knowledge. He has spent more time at the surgery than typical, perhaps an extra hour or so on the days he has a shift. He has also called Samantha? Sybil? Sandra? asking for additional shifts. Does he need money? Does he owe someone? Or does he want to spend more time away from home? Away from me. Useless to speculate without all the facts.

Conclusions:

Lack of sleep - Previously successful routines to help John relax no longer work. Where playing my violin was always helpful, it no longer relaxes him. Why? The music has not changed, only his reaction to it. Or is it because the music is reminding him of my presence?

Lack of appetite - Meals that are shared between us result in John not eating an appreciable amount. John does the vast majority of the cooking in our household, so it can’t be the food. He hasn’t lost more than a pound or two in several weeks, so he is eating, just not with me.

Jumpiness - The amount of tension apparent in his shoulders and the drape of his clothes indicate that he is more relaxed after spending time away from the flat. The tension only increases after spending a significant amount of time at home.

Lack of social engagements - John has had ‘dry spells’ in dating before, but not usually this prolonged. While he is working marginally more hours, his lack of outings with the Yarders, Lestrade, or even Mike Stamford indicate that he wants to be at home, even if he is uncomfortable here.

Inference:

My presence is unsettling to John Watson.

Theories:

1) John is ill. The lack of sleep, loss of appetite, and nervousness are all stress related conditions. However, I have seen no indication of any other symptoms. No appreciable weight loss, his color is good, his stamina, at least as measured by chasing after criminals, is excellent as always. John is not ill. 

2) John owes someone a significant amount of money. The stress of owing a large sum can certainly cause many of the problems I have noticed. A quick hack into the banking app on his phone, however, has shown that his balance, while not extravagant, is more than adequate for his general needs. There have been no large purchases requiring payments, and John’s idea of gambling is the occasional scratch card or throwing a few pounds at the ponies. To indulge in that, he would normally go to the track, but there have been no engagements of that nature. John does not owe money.

3) John is considering embarking on a significant relationship. This theory is more difficult to parse out as relationships are, admittedly, not my area. If this theory has any merit, it must be someone John truly cares for; no run of the mill woman he has ever pulled at a pub has garnered such reactions. This is someone he knows, and knows well. Someone that he sees often enough that a breakup would make things awkward. It can’t be Sharon? Susan? Sheila? from the surgery. John never dates exes. Why would he display such anxiety levels around me? Is he concerned about the effect of him having a long term relationship on our lives together? True, if it is a serious relationship, then eventually he would want to move out, and that would be agonizing for me. 

Be that as it may, John is not in a relationship currently, as evidenced by the lack of social activities. This hypothetical person is someone he hasn’t even asked out yet, and John is not the type to plan the wedding before the first date. He does not have a large number of people he is particularly close to. There is only one conclusion.

John Watson is attracted to me.

It fits. Everything. His symptoms are all in my presence, his lack of weight loss means he is eating elsewhere. Perhaps the extra hours at the surgery are to make up for taking a kip there. His anxiety around me, his unfinished attempts to start a conversation, even his reaction to my violin, all can be traced back to basic attraction. For all his protestations that he is ‘not gay’, our relationship definitely transcends that which could be considered strictly platonic. We are more than close. The need we have for each other’s presence is quite mutual. I provide him with danger, excitement, and fulfill his need to be needed. He cares for me, protects me (even from myself), and stimulates my intellect. 

His anxiety at the prospect of approaching me is well founded. He has never known me to engage in any form of ‘romance’. Indeed, that first night when I believed him to be hitting on me, I set him down rather firmly. Now, given the intensity of our friendship, I can understand why he would be loathe to risk it. 

What is the true level of risk here? We are extremely well matched. We already know each other’s shortcomings, and incredibly he must still find me attractive despite mine. If I were amenable to dating, would I be attracted to John? Remarkably, the notion holds an alarming amount of appeal. Physically, he is attractive, deceptively so. He is so unassuming, yet so dangerous when roused. Like a beautiful flower that contains a deadly poison. Ugh, with thoughts like these, can romance be far behind? I shudder inwardly. I have always shied away from romantic entanglements because of the distractions that are inevitable. At this point, though, John’s actions are distracting me and we aren’t even involved! It couldn’t be much worse if we actually did become a couple!

I ponder this for a time. As it is, a good portion of my focus at crime scenes is on John. So often, a small comment or question from him will set me down a previously unconsidered path. I have come to rely on his presence and, I have to allow, my relationships with the Yarders in general have improved due to John’s ability to intercede and smooth out my rather rough edges. Who could have realized that people cooperate so much more when you don’t insult them? As often. I’m not perfect.

Emotionally, I think John and I would suit quite well.

Physically may be another matter.

John is a person of strong appetites. A relationship with him would entail sex of some kind, I’m sure. Could I manage an intimate relationship with John? I already know that he is one of the only people I can bear to have touch me. There are few physical boundaries between us as it is. We simply have never touched with any _intent_ behind it. I remember back to the previous winter. A storm front had come through causing the barometer to drop drastically, resulting in a spectacular headache for me. While waiting for the paracetamol to work, I had lain on the sofa with my head in John’s lap as he stroked my hair and tried to soothe away some of the tension. I imagine engaging in the same activity without pain as a motivator, and somewhat surprisingly, find myself eager to try it. I can’t quite envision anything approaching kissing or other more intimate touching, not having previous experience on which to draw. The idea of trying these things with John, however, is certainly intriguing to me. If I can possibly be compatible with anyone on this earth, it will be with John Watson.

There is no longer any doubt in my mind. I have discerned the problem plaguing John, and will do my best to allay his fears that he will endanger our friendship. 

 

~0~0~0~0~0~

_**Two weeks later** _

This is infuriating. I know John to be a decisive, action oriented person. This infernal hesitation of his is not to be borne another minute. 

This evening I will force the situation to come to a head.

 

~0~0~0~0~0~

 

We are having dinner. Or rather, we are both sitting at the table, cleared for a change, seeing which one of us can more successfully push their food around on their plate while only consuming a minimum number of calories.

He does it again. The intake of breath. The pursing of lips as he contemplates what to say. The exhale as he gives up. Again.

I finally snap.

“Is there something you want to say to me, John?” I did not intend the edge in my voice, but really! Enough was enough.

John’s eyes snap to my face. He pales slightly. Looks back down at his plate.

“Well, um, actually,” he pauses for a deep breath. Lets it out. Looks back up at me. “Yes, Sherlock. There is something I’d like to ask you.” He abandons all pretense of eating and stands up from the table, beginning to pace. I stand as well. I will follow him out the door if need be. We will sort this out tonight!

“Oh gods, how do I start this?” He mutters to himself. “Best just to dive right in.” 

He stops pacing and leans against the wall dividing the kitchen from the sitting room. He crosses his arms, not really defensively, but more to reassure himself.

“There’s someone I like.” I knew it! I was right!

“Here’s the thing. It’s a bloke. I know, I know, all my protesting, ‘not gay’ and all that, but I can’t stop thinking about him.” Him? Not _you_? Maybe he’s working up to it, watching for my response. I manage a small smile. Yes, receptive, that’s the look I’m going for.

“It’s someone I know from work.” His eyes dart away from me before coming back quickly searching my face. Lying then, but not about the attraction. Maybe the work part? Perhaps not someone at the surgery, but only peripherally related to it? The bottom feels like it’s dropping out of my stomach. I was so sure it was me. Was prepared for it to be me. Now that there is proof otherwise, I realize how desperately I was _hoping_ for it to be me. I feel faintly sick.

“There’s a problem, though.” Please tell me it’s a major problem, something that will keep John from seeing this someone else. This _other_ man. Maybe he’s married. Maybe he’s a patient. Maybe he’s terminally ill. Maybe he’s an alien from outer space. I see now why I am so upset. Obviously John can be attracted to men, but apparently not to me. It is not my gender that he has an issue with, he does not find _me_ attractive. I have to stay here, in this room, because right now, if I retreat to my room, I know I will cry. I had no idea how much I wanted John, until I now I find out that he doesn’t. Want. Me.

“I have never dated a man before. I've no idea if I can manage anything physical. What I’m really scared of is that I’ll try to kiss him, and freak out a bit. I’ve been agonizing over this for a while, and I think I’ve found a solution.” That’s it? That’s the big problem? If John has already found a solution, then why are we having this tortuous conversation? He should go out and proceed with his grand plan and leave me here. Alone. Where I can lick my wounds and try to keep a hold on my pride.

“I know it’s a huge favor to ask, really an imposition. But we’ve been through everything together, yeah? If I can’t trust you, I can’t trust anyone, right?” With all my deductive reasoning, I cannot fathom what he is trying to ask me.

“So, anyway, what I’m asking is,” he huffs another deep breath. “Sherlock, can I kiss you? Purely scientific, you know? Research, if you will. To find out if I can handle that sort of thing with a man.”

I know that there is no possible way for a human being to continue to live once you rip out its heart. But somehow I am still standing here, even though it feels as though John has ended me. Not only is he contemplating a serious relationship, possibly culminating in leaving me, but he has confirmed that I am completely undesirable. If there was any person who could see past all of the _me_ , and love me anyway, it would have been John, but apparently even he has more refined taste than that. I had thought that for all the times he ditched his dates for me, for all of the flak he took from so many people for willfully subjecting himself to my presence, for all of his tolerance for my abrasive nature, that I was important to him. 

But no. Now he stands here, asking to practice kissing a man. To make sure he can do it. And get it right. Just so that he can go do it with someone else. With another man. With another man who may take my John away from me. If I weren’t so hurt, so dumbfounded, I would probably be furious, but I can’t muster the energy for that right now. By all rights I should scream at him. What I should say I have no clue. I should fling on my coat and storm from the flat. But where would I go? Mrs. Hudson would be sympathetic, but I don’t think I could make a grand exit without even leaving the building. Mycroft? Like I really need to hear about how caring is not an advantage right now. Lestrade? Ugh, the thought of wailing to him makes me feel even more ill than I already do. Molly? She is still nursing her crush on me. No need to add yet another level of discomfort to this already absurd situation. Angelo? I can see it now, he breaks out some of his finest wines and we drink away the various sorrows of life. Then tomorrow, I have a broken heart and a hangover. 

The only person I could think of confessing this kind of hurt to is the one standing in front of me, hurting me. I may know nothing of relationships, but even I can tell that if we are to have any chance of getting past this, I cannot let him know how his request has affected me.

“Sherlock? You alright, mate? You’ve been standing there blinking at me for two minutes now. Getting a bit worried.”

A thought occurs to me. He’s even given me a way out of it. Science he said. Research. If he truly is interested in someone, this may be the only chance I will ever have to kiss John Watson. I’ve no experience at this. I’ve no illusions that I can completely ‘wow’ him and keep him here with me. Maybe, however, just maybe, if I put enough into it he might stop and think. Maybe see me in a new light. I know I am making excuses for him at this point, but maybe I’m right. Maybe he simply hadn’t considered me because he didn’t realize I could be interested in such a thing. _I_ hadn’t realized I could be interested in such a thing before all of this nonsense started. I could take him up on his offer. Kiss him. Kiss him with everything I had, and still have plausible deniability. I’m doing it for the scientific value. Yes. I could do this.

He is speaking to me again. I bring him back into focus. He sounds rather worried.

“Sherlock! You in there?” He is bordering on frantic now.

I shake myself slightly.

“Yes, John. Yes, I’m quite fine. Just, um, processing.” I am rather proud of the even tone I manage, even though my insides are quaking.

“Ah, there you are.” The relief in his voice is palpable. Insensitive he may be, but I know he does care for me, just maybe not the way I wish he would.

“So what do you think?” He sounds as nervous as I feel. What can he be nervous about? There is no risk for John in this. Whomever it is he is attracted to is currently unaware of his conundrum. If it doesn’t work, nothing is lost on his side, he can move on, knowing that a relationship with a man is something that he just can’t do. If it does work, then he is free to pursue this gentleman that has caught his eye. For me, in either case, I lose John. I begin to question the sanity of my plan.

“Um, yes. Well. I’m not sure…” I make the mistake of looking up into his eyes. I see a desperation there. He wants this. Feels like there is a lot riding on it. Regardless of what he does afterward, he wants very badly to kiss _me_ right now. I know that no matter how insane it is, I am going to do it. I am going to kiss John Watson.

I clear my throat. 

“I may not be the best candidate for this, John. I have no experience in this area…” I trail off, for the first time in my life I am embarrassed by my lack of participation in social endeavors. 

“That’s alright.” He is quick to assure me. “It’s more about who you are than how, erm, good you are at it.” I suppose that’s true. He has no way of gauging what level of experience his intended has.

“Alright. How would you like to do this?” Standing in the doorway to the kitchen is about as unromantic as it gets here in Baker Street.

“Hmmm.” He looks around the sitting room. “Sitting next to each other on the sofa can be awkward. How about our chairs? We’ll be seated, which helps with the height difference,” he looks slightly annoyed, while I smirk, just a little, “but facing each other.”

“I’m amenable.” We proceed to our respective chairs and seat ourselves, close to the edge of our seats so we will be able to reach each other. The atmosphere feels thick.

“Now what?” I can’t fathom just leaning forward and planting our lips on each other. This is insane. What am I doing?

John grins at me so his eyes crinkle. He seems quite happy right now. Almost like he has been waiting for this. Wanting it as much as I have.

“Just relax. Close your eyes.” Close my eyes? But how am I to observe him? To know if he is being affected by kissing me at all? Still, I know it is typical for kissing couples to close their eyes…..

I comply. At least with the eye closing part. I do not think I am capable of relaxing at this point. 

I startle slightly as I feel John’s hand upon my cheek. It seems there will be touching as well as kissing going on. I am truly unprepared for this. 

I feel his thumb stroke gently along my cheekbone. It feels amazing. When he reaches the top of the zygomatic arch, his fingers drift farther back into my hair. Now his thumb is brushing along the top of the shell of my ear. I shudder slightly, unable to stop myself. Why does that feel so good?

I hear him gasp slightly, but he says nothing. I realize that no matter what the risk, I cannot, should not, keep any of my reactions from him. If I’m to have a prayer of convincing him that I am an option, then he needs to see it. Blatantly. John is not known for being the most observant person.

His fingers are twining through my curls and I feel him gently ease me forward. I can feel his breath ever so slightly on my face. The heat radiating off of him draws me closer. I feel the slightest pressure of his lips at the corner of my mouth. I draw in a breath and can almost taste him. The pressure increases, ever so slightly, and shifts over more toward the center of my lips. We are close mouthed right now, but the intensity is already building. I have never been so close to someone before, not when they weren’t trying to kill me at least.

His lips part enough for his tongue to lightly caress my lower lip. I can’t help it, I moan softly. His teeth nip at my lower lip, tugging delicately, causing my mouth to open a bit to grant him more access.

He takes advantage immediately, catching more of my lip, sucking tenderly on it. My breath stutters. He releases me and shifts smoothly to treat my top lip in the same manner. My pulse is betraying how arousing I am finding this. Thank heavens my eyes are closed, I can’t imagine what my pupils are doing right now.

He finishes his assault of my top lip and slides down into a soul deep kiss. My mouth is still open and he presses forward, licking determinedly into my mouth. The taste of him is enthralling. My tongue rises to meet his without any direction from me. I run my tongue slowly along the underside of his and could swear I hear a faint groan from John. At the sound of it, my pulse quickens further. John’s fingers are curled tightly in my hair now, he is holding me to him and showing no signs of ever letting go. I gasp as he pulls back a bit, and follow him, doggedly refusing to be separated from him right now. 

Suddenly, he surges forward, pressing me back into my chair. Since I was sitting so far forward before, I am now mostly reclined. John doesn’t seem to have a problem with this as he climbs into my chair and straddles my hips. The pressure of him sitting on me makes me aware that I am becoming significantly aroused. My hands fly to his hips, and I hold him in place, pulling him ever so slightly closer. There is no mistaking the noise coming from John now. His lips leave mine and he kisses his way along my jawline and down to my neck where he skims his teeth over my pulse before nipping firmly. I groan and realize that as he is biting at my neck, he is also unbuttoning my shirt. He opens three buttons and spreads my shirt, trailing his lips and teeth, oh gods those teeth, down to the exposed skin. 

He nips and sucks at my clavicle, wrenching the most embarrassing noises from my throat before working his way back up to my open mouth. He plunders my mouth again, nipping, sucking, licking, before grinding his hips down, rubbing our erections together through our clothes. Yes, we are both fully erect, there is no hiding that. John’s worries about being unable to perform with a man are definitely moot.

Instantly, I feel as though a bucket of ice water has been dumped on me. I remember that we are doing this because John is attracted to someone else. This whole experience, as profound as it is to me, means nothing to him. Just practice.

I increase my grip on his hips and shove him off of me. Hard. Hard enough that he lands back in his own chair. Gazing up at me. Confused. Aroused and confused.

“Sherlock? What’s the matter? Was it too much? Did you not like it? Talk to me, please!” John seems truly upset. And afraid. Why afraid? He certainly got the data he needed. The expression on his face is bordering on panic.

“I think that’s quite enough for your experiment, isn’t it, John? Your question has been answered, no hangups about the physical side at all it seems. You may proceed with your gentleman. Goodnight.” I stand abruptly and am nearly knocked over when he stands as well.

He places his hand on the center of my chest, arresting my movement and undoubtedly feeling my heart racing.

“Wait! Please! Sherlock, Let me explain!” The anguish in his voice would be heartbreaking if my heart weren’t already broken at the thought of him kissing someone else like that.

“Explain what? You wanted to know if you could handle a physical relationship with another man. You can. End of inquiry. So go to your other man and leave me be!” I start to pull away from him, but he grabs the front of my shirt, wadding it up in both hands.

“It’s you, you git!” If anything, his grip on my shirt has tightened. He’s not letting me go until I listen to whatever drivel he’s trying to tell me.

“What’s me? What are you talking about?” I just want to get away. I _need_ to get away.

“The bloke I like! It’s you! Please listen! I had to find a way to find out if you were interested in a relationship. I finally came up with this. It was perfect. If you weren’t interested, I wouldn’t have poured out my guts to you, and if I couldn’t handle being with a man then it wouldn’t come between us. We’d still be friends. Please tell me we’re still friends. Sherlock?” His voice is breaking and tears are starting to well up in his eyes.

It’s me that he was interested in all along? I was right in the first place? But he said….

“You said it was someone from work.” It was that statement that had completely derailed me earlier.

“I do work with you. We do the Work all the time. I didn’t lie, I just never said he was from _my_ work.” John looks appropriately ashamed of his deception. No, not ashamed. Completely miserable. Defeated. It’s not a good look on him.

His grip on my shirt loosens. He smooths the material lightly, but it is wrinkled most deplorably from his urgent hold. He trails his hands down my torso, lets his hands rest on my hips so tenuously I can barely feel them, yet they are branding me. It’s too much, this turmoil. I step to the side toward the fireplace, facing away from him, breaking contact. I need to think.

Not a quarter of an hour past, I was unashamedly wishing for John to confess his attraction to me. Now he has, and yet I am angry. Why am I angry? I should be over the moon. Something about the whole transaction feels a bit shady. What if he had been incapable of arousal with me, but I felt the way I had? The way I still do feel. Further contemplation tells me that if he had been in any way disgusted by our activities, The Kiss would not have progressed as it had. He was right, it had been the perfect plan for sorting through our respective issues. Low risk of endangering our friendship. High chance of success. 

I realize that what has me so put out is that John Watson managed to put one over on me. Managed to hide his true feelings from me. All that is standing in the way of us continuing that incredible Kiss, is my pride. Still, I can’t let him win that easily. Pride, you know.

“Sherock? Please talk to me. Please. Are you alright?” The breaking tone of his voice has me spinning around to observe him. 

He looks completely devastated. Shattered. His breathing is ragged. His face is in his hands. The hands that were so recently on my hips, bunched in my shirt, tangled in my hair. His pain is painful to me. To hell with pride.

“What is it that you want, John? Sex? A relationship? If there was ever a time to speak plainly it is now. I’m not good at this. I don’t _do_ this. I don’t understand….” My voice is now trembling nearly as much as his. As much as I want whatever this is, I do not believe I have ever been more terrified in my life than I am right now. I hadn’t comprehended the ramifications of intimacy. I knew it was supposed to be pleasurable, but the vulnerability was unexpected. 

He raises his head from his hands and gives me an incredulous look. His expression clearly states that he can't believe what I am asking him. 

“I want it all. Every part of you, you mad bastard. The body parts in the fridge, and the noxious experiments on the kitchen table. The mad dashes through parts of London I never knew existed, and the violin at three in the morning. Do you think I would risk what we already have for just a fling? Some physical release? You already occupy my every waking thought and most of my dreams as well. Everyone else is boring for me now, Sherlock. No one can give me what you give me without even trying. I can’t even contemplate being away from you now. Please, Sherlock, can we? Do you want it too?”

As he had been speaking, he had been moving toward me. He is right before me now, one hand coming up, almost touching my face. I grasp his hand in mine, halting its movement. I turn my most piercing gaze upon him. I search for every iota of information I can wring from him. He _relaxes_ under my scrutiny, welcomes it. There is no deception in him. He truly wants this, no, _needs_ this. I recognize that now it is all or nothing. There is nowhere to go but forward. If we try to go back, to what we were, we will combust. There is only one answer to give.

I close my eyes and lower my face toward his.

He plunges his hand into my hair, drags me down the rest of the way, and once again takes possession of my mouth. My breath. My soul. This kiss is different. This is no experiment. As passionate as our first kiss was, the intensity has now been ratcheted up immeasurably. He pulls away slightly, turns me and backs me two steps so that the back of my legs come in contact with the armrest of my chair. A tiny shove from him and I find myself seated there, marginally below him. Now with the height advantage, John takes complete control.

I gaze up at him, what must be a completely gobsmacked look on my face. I am unequivocally out of my depth. I would be lying if I claimed I am not afraid. Not afraid that John would ever hurt me, ever do something to me that I did not want. Desperately afraid of disappointing him. Of not being enough. Of losing myself in him, and then losing him. I know myself well enough to know that I will most assuredly become addicted to him. Perhaps I should worry that I will be too much for him, obsessed with him. That I will drive him away with my possessiveness. 

It seems, however, that the time for protests is past. Both of John’s hands weave their way into my hair, his fingers tangling in the curls and twisting to grip me firmly. The firm tugging sensation liquefies something deep in my core. I allow my head to fall back, exposing my throat, and emitting an embarrassingly loud moan.

The intensity of the snarl erupting from John was startling. It is so easy to underestimate the passion in this man, The cuddly jumpers, twinkling eyes, and high-pitched giggles serve as the ultimate camouflage for the soldier, the predator. Even I am guilty of forgetting how lethal he can be. How could I have missed how potent he would be in this, the vehement expression of ...what? Love? Lust? _Sentiment_? Was there a word for what was happening here, in this statistically insignificant spot in Central London?

The pressure of teeth and tongue along my jawline is devastatingly intense. Coherent thought is completely derailed in favor of sensation. His mouth travels upward to find a small spot just below my earlobe. Lips, teeth, and tongue all come into play as John bites, licks and sucks all at once. Marking me. Branding me as his. No cocaine high was ever as profound as this. As long as John Watson lives and breathes I will never again be tempted by drugs. He is far more addicting than the purest cocaine.

I am coming to the realization that I have done nothing but receive his attention. Despite my lack of experience, I need to become an active participant. Hesitantly, I bring my hands up to his sides. Splaying my fingers wide, I span from his waistline to halfway up his ribcage. I can feel his breath stuttering through him and my right hand can feel his heart thundering in his chest. I pull him closer to me…

My eyes snap open and I gasp loudly as our erections come in contact. Even through all the layers of our clothing there is no mistaking how aroused we both are.

His hands clench tighter in my hair and he pulls us apart, but not far. He pins me with an iron gaze and growls.

“Do you want this to be over before we even start?”

I must have managed to shake my head somewhat.

“No? Then keep your hands to yourself!” He mutters. 

Keep my hands to myself? When he was being so tempting? Alright, two could play this game….

“‘Keep my hands to myself’, John? Whatever you say….” I blatantly move my hands from his sides and run them along my own chest. John’s eyes glitter dangerously.

“What are you playing at?”

I arch an eyebrow at him, but remain silent as I let my right hand slowly drift down my torso. Past the waistline of my trousers. To run up and down the obvious bulge there.

I had expected him to react ferociously. Therefore, when he leans in close and whispers hoarsely in my ear, it was completely unnerving.

“Why you little tart. You think you can tease me? Make me do anything before I am good and ready? I think I need to teach you a thing or two.”

With alarming suddenness, he rips his hands from my hair, grips my mostly open shirt, and yanks me off the arm of the chair. Before I can blink we are halfway through the kitchen. I have never been so grateful to have such long legs. If it weren’t for my hurrying to keep up with him, he’d have been dragging me caveman style through the flat. 

We crash through the door to my bedroom hard enough for the door to rebound off the wall and mostly close again. He drags me to the bed, but when I move to lie down he grips my shirt tighter. I look down at him, bewildered.

He chuckles darkly before ripping my shirt open the rest of the way, the remaining buttons flying through the room. He jerks it roughly down my arms and flings the offending garment to the floor. Now he turns me marginally and shoves me so I fall backwards onto the bed. Before I even stop bouncing, his hands are undoing my flies and tugging both trousers and pants down and off.

I lay totally exposed before him and realize that he is still completely dressed. My gaze travels up his frame to his face and that’s when I see it. He may be clothed, but his face is full of raw, naked, need. It nearly takes my breath away.

“Please, John,” I plead.

“Please, what?” he growls.

“Take your clothes off…. _please_!” I’m not doing much more than whimpering now.

His answer is accompanied by a rather satisfied smile.

“Well, since you asked so nicely…” He reaches down and grasps the hem of his jumper and pulls it over his head in one smooth motion. 

I groan in frustration at the vest still covering his muscled chest.

There is no mistaking the obvious smirk on his face now.

“You’re just gagging for it, aren’t you?”

As my cock is currently leaking precome onto my own stomach at this point, I feel it unnecessary to verbalize the _‘obvious’_ which is broadcast quite plainly from my face. 

He finally finds some measure of sympathy for me, and covers my body with his own, joining our lips again, only breaking apart to bring his vest over his head and throwing it down near the foot of the bed. 

This is the most I have ever seen of John. His scar is massive, fascinating, but I cannot spare my attention for it now. Now, my faculties are better engaged by unfastening John’s jeans as quickly as possible. Haste wars with caution as I pull the waistband of his pants forward before yanking both down, pushing them until they are far down enough that he can kick them the rest of the way off. 

The sensation of skin on skin as he lay alongside me, chest pinning me as he swoops in to once again nip and suck at my clavicle, defies description. How can such contact be both overwhelming and not enough at the same time? The sensory overload is so intense that I can't believe that I haven't embarrassed myself by coming already. It’s too much, but if he were to pull away right now, it would be the end of me. 

If I thought things had been extreme up to this point, nothing could have prepared me for the torture of John trailing his hand down my torso, past my hips, and curling around my bollocks, caressing them gently before stroking up my length and wrapping his fingers around me. He keeps the pressure light, nearly teasing, but all the same in a very few moments I can feel a curling sensation at the base of my spine. As good as it would feel to let the situation progress, I have a burning need to witness John reach his pleasure as well. I need to see his face, hear his rasping breath, taste my name on his lips.

Desperately, I place my hand over his, stopping the provocative movement before stopping is no longer an option.

“Sherlock?” John rumbles, unable to acquire a full breath with which to speak. “Ok?” 

“Please, John, not like this. You too. I need to see you. Please.” I have no idea if my request clear enough. Words are not in the forefront of my brain right now.

With a snarl, John swoops down and catches my lips in a devastating kiss. I’m honestly not sure at this moment if his kiss is any less intense than the feel of his hand stroking my cock. I feel surrounded by him, as if his every touch touches every part of me.

“Lube?” John moans into my mouth. I feel completely unprepared. I have never had a need for such an item. Until tonight I had no interest in engaging in this type of activity. I shake my head, unable to say a word that may displease John.

“Oh well, I guess I’ll just have to improvise.” He murmurs against my lips before starting an agonizingly slow trek down my jawline, down my neck, pausing to worship my clavicle again.

He has moved his hand from my member, and is now running both up and down my torso, alternating between light massage with the pads of his fingers and trailing his close cropped nails over my sensitive skin. On one upsweep, he circles around my nipples. Who could have known that they could be so sensitive? He licks each before blowing on them and running his fingers over them again. This is torture.

“John!” I could swear I shout, but my voice is barely audible.

John smirks at my predicament. Smirks! I think I may hate him, just a little, right now.

He lowers his lips back to my torso and begins a series of small kisses which wander down my chest. His tongue flicks lightly into my navel, but he never pauses, continuing his downward path. Surely he can’t mean to….

The feel of his hot, wet, silky mouth surrounding my cock defies description. He licks up my length, from root to tip, then swirls his tongue around the glans. He keeps each worshipping swipe light, giving no suction. It is the only reason I don’t explode.

He continues these ministrations until I am well coated in his saliva. He kisses his way back up my torso and straddles my hips. For the first time I feel his bare erection alongside mine, the heat of it stunning me.

“Ready?” He doesn’t wait for my response before taking us both in hand. As he strokes with his hand, he also thrusts against me lightly with his hips.

I had no concept that simple friction could feel like this. In a matter of moments I am gripping the sheets with both hands, trying to hold on, just a little longer.

The pace of his movements increase. With each additional stroke and thrust, John’s vocabulary seems to decrease.

“Oh….gods….Sher….so….good... Look...at you…”

With great effort, I yank my hands from the sheets and grip his thighs, using the new leverage to thrust against him. I can feel the tension gathering in him the same as it is in me.

“Together...please…” I manage to pant.

“Gods...yes...beautiful…” He becomes incoherent as he tightens his hand, changes the angle of his hips, increasing the friction, grinding down as well as up.

I cannot hold back any more.

“John!” I shout as the first burst of semen erupts from me. 

To my immense gratification, before the first stripe can even hit me, John is following me, his own ejaculate spurting from him, blending with my own upon my chest.

“Oh gods, Sherlock.” John’s words are ragged as he finishes stroking us through the last pulses. 

He pauses to breathe for a moment before reaching down to the end of the bed to grab his vest from where he had flung it earlier. He wipes his hand, and does the best he can to clean my chest before flopping down beside me.

My every nerve ending is firing simultaneously. I feel both energized and lethargic. My mind is both clear and quiet. I am broken and whole. I want to jump up and experience all life has to offer with John while never leaving this bed again.

“John?” I whisper, afraid that too loud a noise will shatter this perfection I am feeling.

“Mmmm?” He cuddles closer to me, but doesn’t open his eyes. He looks utterly shagged out.

“Was that normal? Is it always like that?” I don’t know which way I want him to answer. If it is normal, if John can experience that level of pleasure with anyone, why would he ever chose to stay with me? On the other hand, perhaps it was only so intense for me because I am a socially deprived freak. Had John enjoyed it as much as I had? Every insecurity I have ever harbored comes crashing to the fore, destroying the perfection I had been feeling more thoroughly than any earthquake.

John opens one eye, throws an arm across my chest, draws me closer so he can kiss the side of my neck.

“After that, you want mere normalcy?” He chuckles softly. “No, Sherlock that was _not_ normal. I think it may be normal for us though. We never do anything by halves, do we?” He rubs his cheek on my arm before tilting his face up and pressing a kiss to my shoulder. He closes his eye again and relaxes into me once more.

He seems completely content. Blissful even. I turn toward him and study his face, much as I had earlier. Both times I have been judging his sincerity. Both times have resulted in the same answer. 

John wants this.

John wants me. 

How? Why? How can I possibly deserve this man? Why is he so different from the other seven billion people on this planet?

He must feel my gaze as this time he opens both eyes. He pulls back slightly, propping himself up on one elbow. 

“What is it, Sher?”

There is no logical explanation for this. No one I have ever known has been able to tolerate me for long, certainly not to the point of maintaining a relationship with me. It stands to reason that John will realize his mistake, most likely sooner rather than later.

Fact: John is not gay. He has always preferred curves and femininity, and I certainly do not qualify under either of those criteria.

Fact: John cares what people think. Being in a homosexual relationship would be hard enough for him to stomach people knowing about, but being in one with a freak as his partner? Unless he does not mean for anyone to know about us. I suppose that would make sense. Certainly it would be less stressful for John to deal with. But what if someone asks him out? He’d have no reason to turn them down, would he? Maybe he wouldn’t turn them down.

“Sherlock?”

Could I cope with that? Waiting at home while John continues to date? Taking whatever part of him he is willing to give?

Fact: John wants children. Maybe he isn’t truly cut out for the house-in-the-suburbs-white-picket-fence-dog-and-a-nine-to-five-job, but he would make an excellent father. He should have that opportunity. I can give him all the danger in the world, but I cannot give him children.

Fact: John regularly gets angry with me. Angry enough to storm out of the flat. It is only a matter of time before I drive him away completely. Before he leaves and doesn’t come back.

“Sherlock! You’ve gone all blinky on me again! What’s the matter?”

I shake myself back to the present. Back into the room where I am currently lying in bed with John. We haven’t a prayer, best to end it now.

I look away from him. 

“This was a mistake,” I mumble. I begin to sit up.

For an old soldier with a bum shoulder and a dodgy leg. John can _move_ when motivated.

“Oh no you don’t.” In a move too fast to follow, he flings a leg over me, straddling me again. He grasps both of my wrists and pins my hands to the bed just above my head.

“You don’t get to do this anymore, Sherlock. You can’t make decisions that affect both of us without even letting me have a say. Now talk to me. What’s the problem?”

The ease with which he is holding me down is embarrassing, or maybe I don’t really want to get up. Either way, an edge creeps into my voice.

“Problem? Pick one! Shall we go down the list? Number one: you’re not gay!”

He smiles at me. Smiles! His eyes crinkle, he is smiling so damn much.

“Yeah, well apparently I’m not entirely straight either. There’s a whole spectrum of sexualities out there, and it seems I’m a little farther to the left than previously thought. Try again.”

“But you like women, John! Soft curves, breasts, feminine physique….I have none of that.”

“You’ve got me there, Sweet and soft you are not. But do you know what you have that they don’t?”

I haven’t a clue.

“The light that comes into your eyes when it all falls into place. The biting wit that regularly flays the morons you have to deal with. The way you always know what I need and give it to me before I even know I need it. Danger? Heaps of it whenever I want. Intellect? It oozes out of you. I even have a bloody ashtray from bloody Buckingham bloody Palace because you wanted to make me laugh. You have loads that I want. Next problem?”

“You care what people think, do you really want people to know you’re with me?”

He throws his head back and _laughs._

“Everyone _already_ thinks we’re shagging! So now we are, what’s the difference? I care what the people who matter think, we know precious few of those, and they will all approve. Mrs. Hudson will be over the moon. All the Andersons and Donovans out there can go rot. Next problem?”

I will admit that thus far his answers have been reassuring. However, there is no way he can refute this one.

“You want children.”

The smile leaves his face, and he becomes quite serious. This is a major sticking point, not just a bit of anxiety on my part.

“Yeah, I would, someday, if we decide that’s what we want. I know it wouldn’t be easy for us, but it’s not unheard of. There’s options out there for gay couples. Here’s the thing, Sherlock: even if I were to stay with heterosexual relationships, there are no guarantees that I’ll ever have a family. I’m not young anymore. Most of the women my age aren’t really interested in having babies, and I’d be nuts to throw away someone as incredible as you simply because we might have to adopt if we decide to go the kids route. We’ll cross that bridge when we get to it. Next.”

John thinks I’m incredible?

“Um, just one more.”

“Let me have it.”

“I make you angry. All the time. You leave. All the time.”

And he’s back to smiling at me.

“That’s it? That’s all you’ve got? You piss me off? So I leave and go for a walk? Think about it, Sherlock. Seeing as I’m sitting here on you right now, it stands to reason that I always come back. I’m not going anywhere. I love you way too much to actually leave over toes in the butter dish.”

He leans down to kiss me, but stops at my sharp intake of breath.

“What is it? What’s the matter?”

My voice is barely a whisper.

“You love me?”

“Of course I do. Why else would I agonize over saying anything to you for weeks? Why would I stew over how to approach you? I can’t believe Sarah hasn’t fired me for plaguing her asking her what I should say. And yes, I was actually so desperate for advice that I asked my ex-girlfriend for tips on asking out my potential boyfriend.”

His hands relax on my wrists, but don’t quite let go yet. 

“May I kiss you now? Are you convinced that you’re stuck with me?”

“Yes, John.” He releases my wrists, slides his hands down and tangles his fingers in my hair again. 

His lips meet mine and this kiss is so sweet, so gentle, but it is no less passionate than any of the others we have shared tonight. If he had not just mended my aching heart, this kiss would have done it. I tear my lips away from his. He looks down at me, worried again.

“John?’

“Yes, Sherlock?”

“I love you, too.”


End file.
